Catching Stars
by writerofberk
Summary: In a world that yearns for beauty, Hiccup is lighting matches and catching stars. AU. Modern-era. Trigger warning for anorexia. Multi-chapter fic.
1. Chapter 1: Easy

_**Catching Stars**_

 **A/N: PLEASE READ: This story does feature eating disorders, bullying, passing mentions of self-injury and child neglect, as a quick warning. I mentioned the eating disorders in the summary, but the rest was a surprise even to me xD**

 **So, anyway, I originally started this as a vent fic back in November, but I ended up getting the idea for _Live Wire_ instead, so I saved the page I had on this to come back to it later - I'd pretty much rid myself of all the bad feelings with _Live Wire_ , so I didn't need to write this anymore. But I need a new vent fic. Because I'm feeling shitty again, which is not exactly a new feeling, but I told myself every time I felt shitty, I would write a fic for it, and try something new every time. I know people who suffer from eating disorders are sometimes offended by others writing stories about the disorder, especially when it's on a whim, but I promise you, I'm not trying to offend anyone; I'm just trying to make myself feel better, and apparently I'm crazy or maybe just a stupid bastard, because giving Hiccup an issue is apparently how I help crawl out of the holes I fall into. But it helps me, and it makes me feel better, so, that's something, right? **

**Oh, this might be a multi-chapter fic, probably will be, but if nobody likes it, it'll probably die slowly.**

* * *

Starving.

Sometimes, Hiccup wondered how he himself would describe it.

Other people had said it was loveless, dangerous, pointless, like striking matches just to see them burn; they said it was deadly and faithless, like crackling flames or breathless magic tricks. Said it was horrible; a vicious habit to fall into, said it was useless.

These people did not give it enough credit, because they had never done it for hours and days and impossibly long weeks.

When he thought of it, Hiccup supposed he'd say it was safe. Secure. Controlled. He did not enjoy the gnawing pains in his stomach, not by any stretch of the imagination – all they did was remind him that he wasn't finished yet – but it was also strange, comforting; a kind of sweet agony, he supposed, a slow and exciting torture. Each pang brought on something close to perverse ecstasy, and though he hungered, though his stomach ached, though he felt so empty…it felt so nice.

It felt so good to hear the November wind rustling dead leaves, disturbing naked branches, and when it blew on him, it was really blowing through him, because he was nothing. It felt so good to see yellowing, waxy skin grow taut over sharp, brittle bones; to see the face in the mirror, ugly as it had always been, growing pinched and pale and narrow, to feel so empty that he could disappear with too deep a breath.

And more than that, it was easy.

It was often said that it was easy, and some people might even have thought him a liar were he to say it now, but it was. It was easy. Too easy.

Nobody spoke to him; nobody asked him where he'd been, or if he'd eaten, or why his clothes fell away from his stomach, his flat stomach – but flat was only one letter away from fat, and he was relieved he hadn't eaten lunch. Nobody asked him why they only ever saw him chewing on apples or tearing off bits of bagels; nobody asked him why he was so good with algebra, with equations, with numbers, nobody ever thought that maybe it was because he counted every day: pounds, calories, bites.

Sometimes, it was hard – sometimes, he wanted to take more bites than he needed, longed to grab all the food within his reach and stuff it down his throat, keep eating and eating until he was finally full again, because he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. But instead, he swallowed nothing but air, pretending it was the bite he didn't earn.

But it was easy to conceal it.

He just kept a smile on his face and a hand near his stomach; sometimes, he used the fingers on his hand, and stuck them down his throat, and sticky bile came pouring out in a putrid, vile stream.

And sometimes, when he lay awake at night, he could hear his stomach growling, and he hated it because he was still weak; sometimes, he raked his nails across his cheeks and down his arms, and he didn't like it; sometimes, he cried, and he didn't like that either; but he didn't sleep. He didn't ever sleep.

It was easy, even, to say the words, because if he just kept repeating them to himself, he knew one day they'd be true.

"I don't need to eat."

If he said it enough and lost enough weight, it would make it true.

"I don't need to eat."

Then he wouldn't be weak anymore.

"I don't need to eat."

One day, his stomach wouldn't growl and he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't curl up on his bed and think about food and he'd be thin and perfect and not weak anymore.

"I don't need to eat."

Then his father would stop yelling at him.

"I don't need to eat."

Then Snotlout would stop knocking him around all the time.

"I don't need to eat."

When these words became true, they'd see. They'd all see.

"I don't need to eat."

He would be _strong_.

* * *

Hunger was a monster.

Everyone had one, and hunger was his.

It clawed up his insides and rained fists upon his abdomen, making his stomach growl, and with each sound from his shaking, pale body, there was a voice, low and nightmarish, following him to school and through the hallways and down to his locker, and up to his classes, and then it followed him home and chased him into restless, fitful dreams, and it said, loud and inescapable and insistent, "You need to eat."

But he didn't need to. He'd never needed to.

 _You need to eat._

"I don't need to eat."

 _You need to eat._

"I don't need to eat."

Hunger, when it tapped persistent fists upon his shaking, pale body, when it whispered malicious lies into his ears, when it chewed and gnawed and ate away at him, feasting on him as if to tell him that this was punishment for feasting on nothing, told him he hadn't gotten enough. Told him he was weak.

He hated hunger.


	2. Chapter 2: Meal

_**Catching Stars**_

 **A/N: Chapter 2 is up! :D**

 **Sorry I've been away from HTTYD for so long, but tbh, I've been straying back to the Treasure Planet fandom lately. Anyone here like that movie? It's one of my favorite films. :) Doesn't beat out HTTYD or Brave or HonD of course, but it's pretty close. I'd say it's my fifth favorite. Not even Rise of the Guardians beats it at this point. Anyway, I kept writing for it because I was feeling sort of crappy and - this is going to sound weird, but I struggle with a lot of stuff. And Treasure Planet was a distraction from some stuff I've been dealing with, ya know. So when I rewatched the movie or wrote something for it, for however long it took me to do so, I was distracted and I wasn't thinking of my problems. It helped a bit. I hope you guys can understand.**

* * *

Breakfast was easy.

Hiccup learned that early on.

His father never asked if he'd eaten. Never asked him anything. Never spoke to him at all. Never looked at him. Forgot he was alive.

The man might stand at the stove, might scramble eggs or butter toast, but he never waited to be sure his son had a bite. He would seat himself, shovel forkfuls into his mouth, and the sight made Hiccup sick, made nausea roil within him.

But his father's eyes swept right over him, and he never noticed.

Never.

Hiccup wondered if it was possible to become so thin, you'd disappear.

He wondered if his father would notice if he did.

* * *

Lunch was even easier.

Nobody sat with him. Nobody spoke to him, nobody liked him.

He was left alone to nibble at his bread, tear apart his sandwiches, trying not to touch or taste the meat. He hated the taste of the meat, the feel of it on his tongue. Even cheap cold cuts made his stomach ache with physical desire.

He chewed as slowly as he could; he needed each bite to last.

In the end, his stomach always growled, always wanted more.

But later, he would take off his shirt and look in the mirror, and when he could count his own ribs, he'd know it had been worth it.

* * *

Dinner was child's play.

When his father was at home for it, Hiccup said he had homework. Occasionally, he'd bring up a plate upstairs, but the smell, the sound of cooked meat and boiled vegetables sizzling lightly against cool ceramic made him sick.

He couldn't stand it.

He pushed it away and turned his attention to his papers. Let the food cool. Let it grow cold.

A flick of his wrist, and every last piece was in the trash.


	3. Chapter 3: Story

_**Catching Stars**_

 **A/N: Feeling shitty again.**

* * *

Hiccup had noticed something about stories.

Most of the time, when people told them, they had some sort of opening line, some clever way of drawing the audience in – even if it was a casual anecdote spoken over champagne, all the stories he'd ever heard had a sort of opening to them, recalled, repeated, rehearsed.

Many of the stories he'd heard, their opening was simple, similar to the last. Well could he remember them.

 _It started with a look. A few too many. A thunderstorm. A smile. A second glance._

He wondered distantly how he'd begin his own story, were he ever to recount it. Were he ever to stand up at a party, solo cup clutched in a freckled hand, painted, practiced smile fixed in place, yellowing teeth bared in the grin he faked so well, how would he begin? It could be simple, like sharing news.

" _I don't eat."_

He could drag it out, tell them he had something to say. Wait to make sure everyone was listening before he started. _"I made a mistake. I looked in the mirror. Now I don't eat."_

Maybe he'd begin with an opening line, like other people did.

 _It started with a plate…and a question._

A plate of scentless scrambled eggs and crisp bacon gathered in a greasy pile on the side. A sleepless night spent tossing and turning and staring at the moonlight pouring weak silvery rays down upon his blanket, making bars on his ceiling, and the words in his brain, pounding and inescapable in his sore skull. _What would happen if I disappeared?_

Of course, it was a silly question, childish and pointless. And yet he could not get it out of his mind. When the teacher swept his gaze over Hiccup's desk, pale blue eyes never stopping, never faltering, as if his seat was empty, his desk unoccupied, like he wasn't there, and when he stumbled and fell onto the classroom floor and the other students turned their gazes from his fallen body as if the sight burned them, he wondered. _What if I disappeared?_

And when his father's stormy gray eyes raked unseeingly over his son's body, Hiccup had set his fork down without eating an egg, pushed away his plate without a bite of bacon.

 _And his father never noticed._

For a week after, he hadn't eaten breakfast. He'd pretended he was busy or that the eggs didn't taste right or make some excuse; sometimes, he'd rake it in the garbage with no explanation, green eyes fixed intently on his father's face every second.

And the other never looked up. The man took a calm sip of coffee and picked up his fork. And he never noticed at all.

That first week, Hiccup hadn't really thought it meant anything; it was more of a game to him than anything, a kind of vague, amusing morning entertainment. Will Dad notice if I don't eat today? It was a game, he told himself, and it didn't matter if his father looked or not.

Really, he'd meant to resume his ordinary routine when the man finally glanced up from his own empty plate and noticed his son's loaded one.

That was the thing, though.

He was still waiting.


End file.
